


Sacra

by wyntre



Series: Shelter [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Separations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:16:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntre/pseuds/wyntre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Paris and politics. Mycroft is lonely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sacra

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place one year after the events of 'So Long Lives This, and This Gives Life To Thee.'  
> ______________________________________________________________  
> This one took me far too long to get out. I have no real excuse except uni getting in the way, and a lack of inspiration. It sat unfinished for around two months... Not nearly as long as I wanted, not nearly as decent as I'd hoped, but it's still something...

The Paris night was wet; lights running into each other off the Arc de Triomphe and cafes into pools of molten gold. It was a night for long walks for couples clinging together under umbrellas, for hot coffee in warm coffeehouses with pastries on the side, for soft blues and lonesome saxophones. It was a night for books in front of heaters and board games for families grouped around kitchen tables. It was not, Mycroft decided as he looked out from his hotel balcony, a night to be alone in a foreign city. 

Mycroft knew Paris well. Granted, it was only across the Channel, the two landmasses connected by that infernal tunnel that he helped facilitate the building of but now hated right down to the last grain of sand in the concrete; but Mycroft had seen enough of France’s capital to last him three very long lifetimes. He knew every back lane and wide, sweeping street; every good bakery and café, every decent cinema. He could speak French like he could speak his mother-tongue, and, should he have occasion to; better. He was no stranger to Paris. Like every other city in the world it had its quirks; a glamorous exterior masking the seedy underbelly that everyone knew about but never spoke of.

Parisians, for the most part, were polite out of expectation, and Mycroft understood that more than most. While he spoke his French with a flawless accent, they picked up on his Oxford education – the way he held himself, the way he intoned his words - as if he had swallowed an audiobook. It was too close to perfect, and several hundred years of English-French hatred could not be masked by a false smile and a stilted qui monsieur when he ordered coffee. 

Usually, Mycroft was okay with travelling. His job demanded it, and he was a polyglot so regardless of where he needed to go (and it tended to be either France for cross-Channel relations or Geneva for the United Nations) he was at ease with the language at least. Usually, though; he was alone. Greg understood, Greg always understood. Scotland Yard had its own demands, and they would often go for days without seeing each other while Greg worked a case or yelled at Sherlock, but ever since they had finally realised how they felt, Mycroft had felt terribly guilty about his diplomatic duties. 

Mycroft watched as lights from passing cars and scooters shimmered on the wet road, casting a strange luminescence up into the sky. His fingered itched, longing to map the planes and ripples of Greg’s body, to hold him. He wasn’t interested in sex, not at that exact moment in time; he wanted Greg, just Greg and nothing else.  
A light drizzle was falling, blurring things on the edges and making Mycroft wonder if it was raining in London. It always rained in London. The phone in his pocket was heavy, tugging him; earthing him and making this all the more real. As much as it pained him, Mycroft needed Greg. He hated the taste it left on his tongue, Mycroft Holmes needing someone – and bitter, the words swirled in his mouth.

“Sir?”  
Mycroft turned to glare at Anthea for interrupting his thought processes. She ignored him and handed over a second mobile phone, before turning back inside, never taking her eyes off the BlackBerry in her hands.  
“Mycroft Holmes speaking.” It turned out to be the President of the UN, wanting to know if… Well, Mycroft wasn’t too sure what he wanted. They met in the middle, Nassir speaking broken English; and Mycroft speaking broken Arabic until they both agreed to give up and speak in Dutch. Then it became clear what Nassir was asking. Nothing that couldn’t be asked via email; but emails get intercepted and corrupted. Something about NATO, and the British involvement; Mycroft smirked down the line.  
“No. I’ll let Cameron know.” A pause, Mycroft rubbed the side of his face absently. “Yes, Nassir. Of course.” Another pause. “Yes, yes, okay. Bye.” He hung up and stared back out over the city, mobile phone dangling between his fingers. He contemplated dropping it off the balcony, just to see if the old Nokia brick was as indestructible as urban legend would have one believe, but then thought better of it. It was technically a burn phone, designed to be thrown out after one call, but they kept using it for calls such as this, both in and out; because the calls made were untraceable. 

“Sir?”  
Mycroft turned, and smiled at Anthea in what he hoped was a fatherly way. She took the old brick off him and flashed a wan smile in return, some kind of nod to social norms.  
“Oh, sir, Inspector Lestrade…” She paused, and scrolled through her BlackBerry. “He messaged, he said he wants you to call him at the office when it suits you.”  
“Duly noted,” he fished for the iPhone in his pocket, and dialled Greg’s office; meanwhile, Anthea retreated to the indoors.

“Hello, I’d like to report a theft,” Mycroft said, before Greg had the chance to say anything; putting on his best Coronation Street accent, he could almost hear Greg rolling his eyes.  
“Address?”  
“17 Cherry Tree Lane.”  
“Shall I send Mary Poppins?” Greg smiled down the line, knowing full-well that it was Mycroft.  
“No, an Inspector will do.”  
Greg was the first to drop the act. “How’s Paris?”  
“Toujours le même, mon cher,” Mycroft shrugged. “London?”  
“Wet,” Greg deadpanned, then remembered that Mycroft couldn’t see him. “Sherlock’s driving John and I up our respective walls, can’t you arrange a nice murder for him, or something?”  
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”  
“John tells me Sherlock’s been shooting walls again.”  
Mycroft sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Surely the London underclass hasn’t been that quiet.”  
“You’ve been away three weeks, and we’ve gotten two reports of break-ins and nothing else.”  
Mycroft exhaled slowly. What else did he pay the ganglords for? “Well, I’m back in two days, provided this mess gets sorted.”  
“Good.”  
“Why, Gregory, I’m starting to believe you miss me.”  
Greg snorted. “What a load of utter nonsense.”  
“Hyvä yotä, kultaseni.”  
“Mycroft, how many times do I need to tell you that my knowledge of Finnish is limited to a few choice phrases that would make your mother blush?”  
Mycroft resisted the urge to start speaking fluent Armenian, just to test Greg’s patience. “Goodnight, my love.”  
“Goodnight, My…” Greg sighed, and paused a moment. “I miss you.”  
“I miss you too.” 

There was a click, and the end-of-call tone reached Mycroft’s ear. 

Mycroft went back to watching the Parisian traffic; while in London, Greg stared out the double-glazed glass of his Scotland Yard office, looking but not seeing. 

~Fin~

**Author's Note:**

> French; "Toujours le même, mon cher." Translation: Ever the same, my dear.  
> Finnish; "Hyvä yotä, kultaseni." Translation: Goodnight, my love.


End file.
